Topsy Turvy
by Spookykat
Summary: Santana Lopez was no angel. However, when she does the unthinkable and takes her own life, the tragedy strikes close to home for those at McKinley High who knew her best. Warning: Suicide.
1. Prologue

A/N: Warning, this fic is about suicide. I hope I did the topic justice.

Thanks to Swing Girl At Heart for the brainstorming!

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It was 7:00 AM, and it had already become abundantly apparent that the universe _hated _Darshen Figgins.

His wife broke the coffee pot. The debit card was declined when he went to Starbucks to get his caffeine fix. The chicken curry his wife made the night before had leaked all over the car on his way to work, spilling onto his briefcase.

None of this boded well for the fresh hell that was bound to await him when he arrived at McKinley High. And, as he noted at the sight of a man and woman waiting for him in front of his office that morning, it wasn't about to get better any time soon.

It wasn't unusual to see strangers waiting for him in the morning camped out in front of his door. Parents were often waiting for him to lodge their campaigns and complaints on their children's behalf. Not a good sign. But at least they didn't look angry. That was something, at least. But they didn't look happy. In fact, they didn't seem to look as though they were feeling any kind of emotion at all.

"Principal Figgins?" The woman asked. There was something familiar about the way the woman's predatory stare made his blood run cold, but he couldn't quite place it.

He gave her his best fake-smile as he fished his keys out of his pocket. "What can we do for you today?"

"My name is Julianna Lopez. My husband and I apologize for coming by without an appointment, but…"

"No, no apologies necessary, Mrs. Lopez," he said ushering them in, but she whipped around and stood nose-to-nose with him.

"You interrupted me," she informed him in a low and threatening tone. "No one interrupts me."

Figgins just nodded. Intimidation. Oh yes, this day was just getting better and better.

"Forgive my wife," Mr. Lopez said with a sheepish smile. Mrs. Lopez glared at him right now, but her husband was apparently immune to it. "It is a difficult time."

Mrs. Lopez stiffened at that, but still, she continued. "Principal Figgins, my daughter is Santana Lopez."

Now it was all starting to make sense. The Cheerio and Glee Club member had been to his office on numerous occasions for disciplinary actions, unfortunately. Her file was one of the longest of any female currently attending his high school. She was stubborn to the core and willful and harbored an attitude that hardly won her over with any of the teachers. Will Scheuster was the only one who would stick up for the girl if he heard any of the faculty speak ill of her, and she'd certainly done more than her fair share to earn her a seat across from his desk, so he knew her well. But it had been a month since anything had happened that would warrant a protest from one of her parents, let alone both of them.

"Yes, I'm familiar with your daughter," he said. "What's this about?"

"Our daughter is dead," the woman said in a trained, even tone.

Figgins could not believe what he'd just heard.

"She's what?"

The woman's lip quivered ever so slighty, and then she inhaled. Her husband laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. The hostility was gone, replaced now with what Figgins could only describe as vulnerability. All that remained in the woman's demeanor was raw grief, giving Figgins a stark contrast from the tempestuous gail-force that had been Julianna Lopez not ten minutes before.

"Martin," she pleaded with her husband. " Explain, please…I can't even..."

"Suicide," Martin supplied quietly. "I had pain pills in the medicine cabinet from when I had back surgery last year. I'd only needed three of them. She'd taken the whole bottle."

Figgins couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Santana? Lopez? Suicide?

No. They had to be mistaken. He had to have heard that incorrectly. Of all the girls in the school, Santana Lopez was the last one he would've expected to do something…like that. He had a hard time comprehending it all.

_She_ wasn't ridiculed for wardrobe choices and an abrasive personality like Rachel Berry. _She _wasn't, as far as he knew, a flaming homosexual like the Hummel boy, or in a wheelchair. _She_ wasn't nine months pregnant like Quinn Fabray. _She_ was the one who gave other girls a hard time if she felt they deserved it.

Compared to a lot of students who came through the doors of William McKinley High, she had it easy here. She was a _Cheerio_ for crying out loud. She had friends—friends whom she could talk to if she was having problems.

The problems he'd experienced half an hour ago were so _small_ compared to what the Lopez family must be experiencing now. He was fairly certain they'd trade broken coffee pots and debit card failures with having to plan the funeral of their daughter in a second.

"Of course," he began, "on behalf of McKinley High, I offer you and your family deepest condolences," Figgins finally said after what felt to him like an eternity. "Are there any services planned?"

"We haven't made any arrangements yet," Martin answered. "But when funeral arrangements have been confirmed, we'll let you know."

"If there's anything I can do for you, let us know," Figgins said. And he actually meant it.

"Thank you, Mr. Figgins," Martin said, as he ushered his wife out the door. And then to his wife: "Julianna, come. We have many things to do."

So did he. Whatever Figgins thought he'd possibly be dealing with that day, the death of a student by her own hand certainly never even crossed his mind. It seemed as though a student died each year, but usually from car accidents. In all his years as administrator, he'd never dealt with a suicide before.

Santana. Lopez. Suicide. The three words turned over and over again in his mind as he tried to connect the three, but it was just…impossible. Absolutely

impossible. The whole thing just seemed completely surreal. It was like someone had turned the world on its head and any minute now, this would not be his reality.

He would call his secretary, ask for Santana Lopez's first period teacher, and find out that this had all been some kind of sick, twisted joke which would get the Cheerio in the kind of trouble that would be worthy of suspension this time.

But somewhere, on some level, he knew it was true.

He pressed the speaker for the secretary.

"Madeline, please look up the schedule of Santana Lopez and send all of her teachers to my office at once, as well as Ms. Pillsbury."


	2. Emma

**A/N: Thank you to all who reviewed the prologue, as well as the author alerts and favorites! Reviews are love!**

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Patrice Jackson was a sophomore at McKinley High and was very, _very_ glad that today was her day to be Office Aide, which was an honor bestowed only to those who made the A honor roll and had perfect attendance.

Being office aid wasn't exactly a glamorous position. It meant that she ran back and forth from classroom to office, but it did not come without its perks. They gave her a donut from the teacher's lounge. She could make up Mr. Scheuster's Spanish quiz that day and it bought her time to study for it later that night, so she was beyond thrilled. It also meant that she was the purveyor of gossip regarding anyone who got in trouble that day. Not that she was normally someone who spread rumors about people, but knowledge was power, and she was usually so…_powerless_ at school. Nobody who mattered knew who she was. She wasn't in any clique or activities and she had a friend or two here and there, but usually, Friday nights were usually spent reading smut online.

But when her Spanish teacher came into the office, along with Ms. Pillsbury, as well as a Tenth Grade English teacher, Mr. Kellerman, Mrs. Bateman, the Algebra teacher, Mr. Noland, the history teacher asking her if she knew anything, she told them all that she was as baffled as they were.

A woman and a man left Figgins' office in tears, and Figgins looked at all the adults in the room the same way Patrice's mother had when she told her that her Grandmother had passed away, like it was the last thing he wanted to do in the world, but he knew it had to be done.

And then it hit her.

"We should call the funeral parlor when we get home," the man said as he left.

'_Funeral parlor?' _wondered silently. '_Someone died?'_

Apparently, the same realization had just dawned on Mr. Scheuster. All the color drained from his face and after a glance at Coach Sylvester (who was normally merciless with her Spanish Teacher, but for some reason today, she was sparing him her usual tongue-lashings), asked in a voice almost too quiet for Patrice to hear, echoing the question that she herself had been wanting to ask:

"Who?"

Figgins just nodded towards Patrice and said "Little pitchers, William. I think we all need to have this conversation in my office."

Patrice wanted more than anything to be a fly on the wall. Not that she wanted to be the one to break THAT kind of news if her suspicions were correct. It's just…she hated the not knowing. If it was one of her friends…she stopped THAT train of thought right in its tracks and a very shell-shocked Emma Pillsbury emerged handing Patrice a note.

"Take this to room 214 and give the person in charge of the room the message, please," she said as though it were all one word.

"_Tell Brittany to come to my office __ASAP__ IMMEDIATELY, please. –E. Pillsbury."_

'_Brittany….which Brittany,' _ Patrice wondered as she delivered the message, feeling bad for whomever it was for. There were five Brittany's in the sophomore class alone, so the name itself didn't narrow it down much. But Mr. Scheuster was there, and he lead that stupid Glee Club. So was Coach Sylvester, so it had to be a Cheerio AND a Glee Clubber…which meant…

'Ohhhhh! THAT Brittany,' realization finally dawning on her. _That_ Brittany. The one who always hung around that Santana bitch. Patrice had a couple of classes with the girl, remembering some of the UNBELIEVABLY dumb things in class. She actually said once that gay marriage should be between a man and a woman.

But if it was Brittany she was bringing to Ms. Pillsbury's Office, which meant…

_Santana_. Santana Lopez had died. She didn't exactly _like_ the girl, but that didn't mean she wanted _that _for her. She never thought she'd feel sorry for a girl like Brittany in her life, but when she realized what it had to mean, her heart went out to the girl.

"Brittany?" the student temporarily in charge of the class called out. "Get your things."

"What's this…" Brittany might have had the IQ of a toadstool, but the look on Patrice's face must've told her it was something horrible.

"What's wrong?" she asked in a small voice.

"I think Ms. Pillsbury should be the one to tell you that," Patrice answered, squeezing the girl's hand on an impulse.

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Upon Will's request, Brittany had just been called to her office. She was being pulled out of her homeroom class and she'd be here any minute.

_One…two…three…four…_she stopped the door-knob wiping to look at the clock. The smell of ammonia did nothing to calm the panic that was beginning to take over. Brittany would be here any…

_One…two…three…four…five…_

_One…two…three…_

Emma jumped at the sound of a small rap on her office door.

'_Oh, this is going to be hard,'_ Emma realized as she applied hand sanitizer for the twenty-second time that day. It was only 7:30. At this rate, she was going to have to use her lunch break to buy hand sanitizer at a nearby drug store, because she only had three more in her desk.

No amount of hand-sanitizer or ammonia would wash this particular reality away. This was the part of the job she hated. There was no telling what would happen. She wasn't helping anyone, she was about to _crush_ a girl.

It's not like she hadn't handled student deaths before, and they were always…trying, but Emma couldn't shake the feeling that _this_ time with _this_ particular girl, she might just fall apart right there in the office.

"Um, Brittany," Emma said, inhailing.

"I'm confused, Ms. Pillsbury," Brittany said as she sat down her bag. "I mean, I know I get confused a lot. That whole dozen equals...um...

"Twelve," Emma helped.

"Yeah...that. It trips me up every time!"

"Something terrible happened last night," Emma said, bracing herself with what was inevitably to come. "Santana…took some pills, and…um…"

"Santana takes pills all the time," Brittany prattled on. "This one time we all took these Vitamin D pills, and, you know, I know drugs are bad and they mess everyone up, but I think they made me smarter."

"Brittany..." was all she could manage to say.

Brittany look flustered, and Emma had no idea what to say to make her understand. How could the girl NOT understand? Why wasn't she able to comprehend this horrible thing? Brittany seemed absolutely, _blissfully_ clueless that her best friend was gone. It took every ounce of willpower Emma had not to shake the girl, but the truth was, she was having trouble comprehending the whole thing her self. So she just settled for the plain, simple truth.

"Brittany, Santana's gone."

"Santana will be back," Brittany informed her. "I know because I'm still here, and she'd never just…leave me."

Emma let out a shaky sigh. She hated this. It was her job to know what to say to kids when it came to these kinds of things, her job to comfort people who deal with tragedies like these, but the student she was supposed to be comforting was just _not_ grasping reality_._

And so Emma just hugged Brittany.

"She's not coming back," Emma whispered, tears flowing unchecked now. "She killed herself."

Brittany backed away and Emma was glad for the chair across from her desk so the girl had something to collapse into, because judging from the look on her face, Emma didn't think that the girl was capable of supporting her own weight.

And for the first time in her life, Emma Pillsbury _hated_ her job.


	3. Will

**Thanks to all who reviewed the last two chapters. I'm slightly disturbed that this topic is so popular, but my how we all love our angst, right? **

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Will Schuester really hoped with all this might that this was all a dream that would, at any minute, be interrupted by the sound of his alarm clock buzzing.

But somehow he knew that no amount of wishing could make this reality go away. He didn't know what was going on when he, along with Brad Kellerman, Emma and Sue were all called in to Figgins' office first thing in the morning, but when a couple left arm-in-arm discussing 'funeral arrangements,' the reality hit him like a Mack truck.

Someone died.

One of his kids.

"Ms. Pillsbury," Figgins was saying, although to Will, it sounded like his boss was above water and he was drowning in the depths beneath. "Clear your schedule for the week for any student at the school who may need our help. I also don't think it would be a bad idea to hold a special assembly regarding self-harm."

"An ASSEMBLY?" Will blurted out. "AN ASSEMBLY? That's you're answer? Really?"

"Will, I assure you, I think that…" Figgins try to say, but Will was not about to let up any time soon.

"A girl is dead, and you want to LECTURE? I see boys AND girls wearing long sleeves when it's blazing hot outside. I am pretty sure it's not a fashion statement. There are websites out there PROMOTING and helping girls COVER UP anorexia. I've seen 'I want to die' scribbled on desks, on notebooks. If we don't do something, people are going to get the impression that this was a GOOD IDEA and we're going to wake up tomorrow, the next day or the one after that, and it'll be de ja vu all over again, and we'll wonder what could we have done to save _him_? Or _her?_ How many parents have to come through that door telling us they're making funeral arrangements for their children before we realize that holding our students hostage in a LECTURE telling them not to do this horrible, HORRIBLE thing is a COMPLETELY backwards approach?"

"IS THAT ENOUGH, WILLIAM?" Figgins bellowed.

Will just studied the floor. "Sir…I…"

"William, it's quite understandable given the circumstances. And I appreciate your position, I really do. However, I do not know what it is you want me to do. I don't want another life lost this way any more than you do. However, we can't stop our children from what they do outside these walls. If you have a better idea, though, I'm all ears."

"Sir, may I pull my Glee kids out of class and ask them to the choir room? I'd like for them to hear it from me. Brad?" Will asked the English-teacher-turned-accompanist. "I'd like for you to join me. I really need your help with this one. I don't want to do this alone."

Brad nodded, obviously warmed by the inclusion.

"Of course, Will," Figgins replied.

"Ditto for my Cheerios," Sue said. Figgins nodded, writing a note to his secretary.

"What about Brittany…and…Kurt?" Emma asked, speaking up for the first time. "They're in both."

"Ladyface is all yours," Sue said with a shrug.

"Ask Brittany to come to Emma's office," Will requested. "Tell her in a way that she'll understand," Will added with a sad smile, realizing what an impossible task that could be. Brittany was a sweet girl and a talented dancer, she sometimes seemed to fit the dumb-blonde stereotype better than anyone he ever knew. Emma nodded and jotted down a quick note, handing them both to the secretary.

And Will was confronted with the impossible task of going about his day.

First order of business: Tell the members of New Directions that they'd just lost one of their own.

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Fifteen minutes later, everyone gathered in the Choir room.

"Where's Brittany?" Artie wondered aloud, looking around for the familiar sight of the blonde in her Cheerio uniform.

"And for that matter, where's San?" Mercedes asked.

"I thought you two were fighting over The Puckster?" Puck said.

Mercedes just rolled her eyes. "Puhleeeeease. I got wise to the fact that there are other fish in the sea and have moved on to better things…and…" she said with a glance downard, "BIGGER things."

"Whatever, Momma, you'll be hungry for a taste of the Puckasaurus again before you know."

"Oh, I think we all know that the Puckasaurus has a nasty after-taste," Quinn said.

Mercedes and Quinn just rolled their eyes, high-fiving each other and giggled.

"This better not be because someone leaked the set list again," Rachel said.

"But on the bright side, maybe we can do a number that's not, oh, I don't know, Journey," Kurt said.

"Hey!" Finn protested, and opened his mouth to say something else, but the arrival of their teacher and the accompanist shut him up.

"Hey guys," Will said, "Th-thank you all for coming." He took a deep breath. The levity that had filled the room only moments before had now been replaced with a new sense of dread as they all prepared themselves for what their teacher had to say.

"I think this is the hardest thing I've ever had to do," he said as he felt hot tears threatening to spill over. He inhaled again.

Kurt squeezed Mercedes' hand, and puzzled glances were exchanged all around the room as Will forced himself to regain composure.

'_I will pull it together..._' '_I will not break down__…' 'I will pull it together...' 'I will not break down...' _was his mantra as he forced himself to stay strong for his kids.

"We lost Santana, guys," he said simply. "She killed herself last night."

An audible sharp gasp came from Rachel accompanied by Mercedes' simultaneous shout of 'NOOOO!'

And that was when Will lost it completely.

He was barely aware of being wrapped in a big bear hug by the time someone else did the same thing on the other side of him, until he was almost suffocating in all their embraces.

The bell rang for first period, and Will knew it was time for the routine to begin and he had to send them on their way.

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Going through classes hadn't been easy. He forced himself to go on autopilot just so he could do his job. Every time he saw a dark-haired girl in a Cheerio uniform he did a double-take in a vague hope that it _was_ Santana and someone had made a massive, horrible mistake and Santana Lopez was alive and well and among the living.

But it was Santana Lopez who made the massive, horrible mistake.

It was the Why that hung on his lips was what stung the most. He looked back on the last month, and tried to remember if she exhibited any of the signs, but Santana didn't exactly wear her heart on her sleeve and truthfully, he didn't know her that well.

It had been bad enough with a student from his Spanish class. He'd gotten a taste of that his first year at McKinley, but that was someone whom he only knew by name and sight. That student had died as a result of an accident not like…

He couldn't even wrap his brain around the idea

Santana? Suicide? There were just so many things wrong with those two words being in the same sentence that he barely registered Emma squeezing his arm.

"I sent Brittany home for the day," Emma said. "I don't think it's good for her to be in classes right now. It's going to be rough for her."

"It's going to be rough for all of us," Will replied, sitting down in front of Emma, who was enjoying her usual lunch of peanut butter sandwich with gloves.

"If you need anything Will, just let me know," Emma said.

"I just don't…under…" Will was stammering.

"You know Schuester," Sue began, interrupting them uninvited. "I'm not surprised. If I had to sit through Glee practice, I would've wanted to slit my wrists, too. I mean, in the end, she didn't even have the balls for THAT kind of pain, but you know, I guess you made her soft. I don't take the Mr. Rogers approach like you do, but I get results and if one of my girls got it in their pretty little head that death is better than loosing…well…" she sighed. "They'd be right. But who knows why these kids do the things they do? The fact is, we can torture ourselves over it OR we can move on with our lives. Judging from the pile of used Kleenexes on the table, I see you've chosen the former. By the way, you look fat when you cry."

"Sue," Will said in a low, menacing tone. "There are SO many things that I really want to say in response to that, but I won't, because at the moment, with all that we've both just been dealt with, I don' trust myself. I won't say that you're wrong. I WON'T say that I know that Santana was far from perfect. I won't say that I know she did everything she could to build a tough-girl image to gain some respect in this place because YOU taught her the Machiavellian values that you yourself live by. I won't suggest that maybe, just MAYBE it's the be-feared-not-loved approach that she learned from YOU that alienated her from ANYONE who dared get close to her and I WON'T suggest that MAYBE, just MAYBE if you stopped to think for ONE SECOND that perhaps the kind of behavior you're modeling for those kids is what BREEDS this sort of self-destruction. Do I blame myself, Sue? I blame myself with every fiber of my being. But you, YOU should feel a HELL of a whole lot more responsible for what happened to Santana than I do."

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**A/N: Now I need a prozak, but reviews will work, too! Hope this wasn't too after-school-special here.**


	4. Sue

**A/N: Sorry this chapter took so long guys, Sue was hard to write. Hope I did her justice. Thanks so much for all the reviews, alerts and favorites! Keep it up!**

Sue Sylvester's resumè was impressive, and it afforded her a very unique skill-set, which was how the cheerleading coach always delivered on her promise to win. Sue's life had not been an easy one, but it gave her one very distinct advantage over most of the vast, gutless majority: she could handle almost anything, and that singular advantage was exactly why Sue Sylvester _never_ lost.

But today was a different game entirely.

This wasn't a game. This was…life.

Nobody quit the Cheerios except that one girl. You either died or you were kicked off, and nobody _died_ on her watch. Not if Sue Sylvester had anything to do with it.

Of course, this wasn't exactly something she saw coming, but she thought she knew the girl better than that, thought that giving her the tools to win was enough.

Oh sure, she'd lost people before. Her parents died in a car crash when she was twenty, leaving her alone to shoulder the responsibility of a sister who did not have the mental capacity to care for herself. But tragic as it was, you accept as a child that you loose your parents. It's part of life. It's sad, but you deal with it. Then you move on.

But loosing a student? A student like Santana Lopez? To suicide? That didn't happen. Not on her watch.

She was the only student…the _only_ one out of all the students that Sue taught…that she would never call stupid because Lopez lived and breathed the Sue Sylvester Survival Guide. She always followed orders. She always made the mark. She never missed a step. And Lopez didn't just do what Sue asked with skill, but watching Lopez over the course of the two years she'd been at McKinley High was like watching a younger version of herself.

So when Figgins told her that morning that the girl had offed herself, it just simply…did not compute.

This was the one thing that was NEVER part of the Sue Sylvester playbook. It just simply…wasn't possible. Self-destruction was never part of the lesson. Self-hatred and suppressed anger that she knew typically accompanied an act of desperation such as this just wasn't Sue's style.

She had no use for suppressed anger. Anger was much more useful when it was expressed, and right now, she wanted more than anything else in the world to express anger.

But that would have to wait. For now, she had the unfortunate task of informing the rest of the Cheerios (sans Brittany and Ladyface) that their teammate had chosen to leave this mortal coil thus screwing up in the biggest possible way.

She was waiting in the gym when they filed in one by one, each of them exhibiting the fear and confusion in their eyes at the reason for the meeting.

"Listen up, ladies!" Sue said into the megaphone, pacing like a panther. "It would seem that Lopez pulled an Anna Nicole Smith. A Michael Jackson? Well, he didn't off himself technically, but…you get the idea."

"She WHAT?" one of the girls blurted out.

"Did I tell you that you could speak, McCollum?" she demanded, getting up in the Cheerio's face.

"Did. I. Say. You. Could. Speak?" She demanded again in the megaphone, aiming it at her ear. Sue was so close she could smell the girl's fear, and she knew that McCollum would be deaf for a week, at lea

st, but she didn't care. They needed to understand. She couldn't have interruptions. This was worse than passing Gallstones. This was telling them that one of their own was gone.

Pain, you worked through. But this?

Confused looks on their faces in response just reminded her of the IDIOTS she had as students. Lopez would've known what she was talking about, which, of course, sort of added insult to injury that the fact that she WASN'T smart enough to realize that now everyone was going to have to be paying for what she did.

"Oh come ON people! Would it KILL you to watch the news every once in awhile! Lopez did something INCREDIBLY stupid last night. She took some pills, and now thanks to her, she's earned you all extra practices up until the Encore Cheer of Ohio in two weeks, because now we're going to have to learn new choreography. We have to be PERFECT because LOPEZ demanded nothing LESS of herself, and that means nothing but Sue Sylvester Cleanse drinks for EVERYONE for the rest of the MONTH."

She continued, pacing up and down the line-up of uniform-clad girls.

"If I catch ANY of you eating solid food, you're gone. If ANYONE here thinks that I am going to be lenient, or soft, or make excuses for ANY of you if we don't come in first place would be more wrong than Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama starring in a porn video! Is that UNDERSTOOD? One more thing. The only thing I hate more than losing is drama. If ANYONE here thinks they have the right idea, they should THINK AGAIN, because I might push you hard enough to make you WANT to die, but hey, you know what they say about that which doesn't kill ya."

They all just stared blankly at her until one of the girls apparently got enough courage to raise her hand.

"Coach Sylvester?" Asked a girl who'd finally gained the courage to speak.

"Yes, Ferrier," she replied with a harassed sigh, annoyed that this was taking up so much of her time because the girls just couldn't seem to grasp the concept that no amount of standing there looking stupid was bringing their teammate back.

"What do we _do_?"

Sue Sylvester, who typically always had an answer for everything, was, for a brief nanosecond, absolutely speechless.

So she spoke from her little-used heart-muscle, and said the first thing that came to mind.

"Everyone deals with this sort of thing in their own way. Personally, when my parents died, I played their funeral song, _Sympathy for the Devil _e Rolling Stones on loop with a continuous supply of Cheese Whiz and a streaming marathon of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer. _I was ready to face the world again in a couple of days, but hey, that's just me. But you know what? I say do what you've gotta do. You want to cry, hug, hold hands? Give each other hot-lesbian kisses? If that's the case, before you start, Ben-Isreal and I have an arrangement and he'd like to cut you in on a little deal. Whatever it is you do, I don't care. Deal with it your own way. Just not on my time."

Sue's speech was interrupted by the ringing bell signaling the beginning of the first period of the day.

"Back to class, ladies. And if anyone needs to talk…that's what the guidance councilor's office is for."

Taking it all out on Will Schuester later that day at lunch almost made up for the fact that she didn't have a puppy to kick, but it felt empty when what he said actually made some kind of twisted sense.

_Had it been her fault?_ _Had this happened because of her _Of course not. That was impossible. She was Sue FUCKING Sylvester. Sue Fucking Sylvester was rough. Her standards were high. She demanded nothing less than first place from her students, and those students went on to be successes in life for it. Was she about to change that because someone died? Not on your life.

But still…if it had been anyone else, it'd be different, but this was _Lopez. _Santana Lopez.

Sue Sylvester didn't know how or why, but after a less-than-productive Cheerio rehearsal later that afternoon, she found herself pulling into the Magnolia Manor Nursing Home. It loomed ahead, and she remembered the first time she brought her sister here after her parents were killed.

It was quite possibly the hardest thing she'd ever done in her life, but it got easier with each and every visit. Not that she didn't enjoy seeing her sister, it was just…the memories…the horrible, painful memories that she tried to lock away with each and every win kept creeping out at the seams.

"I'm here to see Jean Sylvester," Sue informed the Concierge Clerk. And it was sheer coincidence that Jean happened to being ushered back by a large orderly named Wendell at that very moment on her way back from the afternoon activity for the day.

"Sue! It's not even the weekend!" her sister said, greeting her in a big bear hug.

"We had popsicles for desert every day so we had to save them all, because Mrs. Lovell made us use them for arts and crafts," she explained as they made their way to her room, holding up a kleenex box-holder that she'd fashioned from the sticks.

"You're not letting them push you around here are ya?" Sue asked her, walking with her to her room.

"If they try, I tell them who my big sister is, and that makes 'em stop."

"I'm glad, Jean," Sue said with a smile that did not reach her eyes.

"Sue, you look sad," Jean told her, sitting on the bed.

"I can never hide anything form you, Jean. You're just too smart for me, you know that?" she replied, tears streaming down her face.

"Oh, Sue…don't cry…why are you crying?" she said, hugging her sister as tightly as she could and handing her one of the tissues from her newly-made tissue holder fashioned out of popsicles. "You get the first tissue from my brand new box, Sue. That makes you very special."

"A student died yesterday, Jean," Sue said simply.

"It'll be okay, Sue," Jean said, hugging her. "I know you taught her a lot."

"I'm wondering if maybe that's the problem, Jean. I'm wondering if maybe…I taught her the wrong things."

"You're a good teacher, Sue. You taught me how to throw spitballs at Wendell. I got him good yesterday. He wouldn't give me the red jell-o for lunch even though he had some on other trays. They didn't let me go outside, but I don't think Wendell will be giving me lime jell-o again."

"I don't want you to get in trouble too much, Jean. I think…I think I might've taught this girl the wrong things."

"You're the best teacher in the world. You teach me a lot, Sue," Jean said.

"You teach me a lot too, Jean." Sue replied.


	5. Matt

Matt Rutherford didn't even know who Santana Lopez was before the summer before his Freshman Year. His mother was a Herrera, and although most of her family was located in Texas, with eight brothers and sisters, Mama's side of the family was massive.

He didn't know the Herrera side of the family that well, but there were second (or maybe third, he wasn't sure) cousin who had moved to nearby town, and when his mother had received a wedding invitation, he was forced to go along with the rest of his siblings.

It wasn't his idea of a good time.

"Aye aye aye," is mother had whispered to his sister, "those bridesmaids dresses are absolutely hideous. When you get married, if you go with Margarita Green, so help me…"

His sister rolled her eyes and muttered something about hating weddings.

And he had to agree. They _were_ awful. And those dresses? They were _hideous. _They were quite possibly the worst shade of green he'd ever seen in his life, and had so many ruffles and sequins that he was pretty sure The Gay Kid (whatever the hell his name was) that Azimio and Karofsky never seemed to tire of tossing in the dumpster would have loved it, but anyone with NORMAL taste? Not so much.

The parents weren't exactly thrilled with the bride's choice of groom, and that made tensions in the church during the service sky-high, and he was wondering how much longer he was going to have to endure this. But then, something happened to him that NEVER happened before in his life…one of the bridesmaids smiled at him.

It wasn't a genuine smile by any stretch of the imagination. Truth be told, he felt like he'd just been marked for something terrible somehow, but she was what his older brothers would've called 'hot,' and his brother Stephen gave him a congratulatory clap on the shoulder when he noticed she did it again as the bridal party processed.

The reception was loud and while his mother was distracted by gossiping with Cousin Luciana (who was pretty sure she saw the groom in the club where she worked with a couple of women on his arm), he snuck himself a glass of champagne and sucked it down in one gulp as fast as possible before his mother or any of his siblings could see.

The band was half-way decent and the champagne must've gotten to his head, because it wasn't long before he was dancing with his little cousin Maya, who'd been one of the flower girls.

And it was then he felt a tap on his sleeve and that _girl _tapped him on the shoulder. She ran a fingertip down his arm. "I'm Santana," she told him.

Matt just smiled. Girls just didn't…notice him like this and he should've been on cloud ten that a hot girl like this Santana chick was flirting with him, but mostly, it just scared the shit out of him.

"The shy, quiet type," she said with a flirty smile. "I like that."

They swayed in tandem to the music, and Matt wasn't really sure where to put his hands, but she wrapped her arms around him and suddenly he was close enough to smell her perfume, and it was intoxicating.

"Aren't we kind of related?" he asked.

"By marriage. But still, haven't you ever thought about doing a cousin?"

Matt couldn't say that he had, but he just shrugged, and Matt was beginning to wonder what planet she was from.

The champagne tray made its way around again, and Santana grabbed a couple of glasses for both of them, and they both sucked them down in one gulp.

"That should help," she said. "Just let me lead." He had no problems with that. Especially since he had no idea what he was doing. No problems at all.

"You go to McKinley, right?" she whispered in his ear, nibbling at it. It sent a shiver up his spine, but it wasn't a _good_ kind of shiver, and he nodded.

"Uh-huh," was all Matt could manage. And Good LORD was that her hand on his ass?

"I know you. You're on Varsity, right?"

Matt could only nod as she began moving her lips over his Adam's apple. "I'm a Cheerio. You're hot. We should make out. There's a broom closet by the kitchen."

Matt didn't have time to wonder how Santana knew that, or why he was more terrified than excited by the idea. He had never had an issue with small spaces before, but a half an hour later, when he and Santana emerged from the closet, he was suddenly feeling extremely chlosterphobic.

"We should do that again sometime," she said, fixing her hair and lipstick.

And it was after that experience that he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he just…didn't like girls that way.

But was he telling _her _that? Not in a million years.

Six months later, and at a party at the Karofsky brother's house, Santana pulled him into the bathroom and her lips were on here before he could react. He jumped back, almost falling back into the bathtub.

"Santana, I…don't…"

"You don't want me?" she fumed. "What are you, gay?"

He tried not to react in a manner that gave away his big secret, the biggest secret a guy like him could have in a town like this, but Santana was a lot of things. Dumb wasn't one of them.

"You're a freakin' homo aren't you?" she said.

Matt couldn't even look at her. He just studied the tiles at his feet.

"Oh my freakin' God…you _are_!" She swatted him. "Why didn't you tell me anything at that wedding?"

"Because I didn't know then," he said, eyes still down-cast.

"So let me get this straight, so to speak. _I_ turned you Capital 'G' Gay?" she asked him, pacing back and forth

"Oh my God…Santana…no...I…" he stammered. "Oh Jesus this is awkward. I'm…I'm not."

"You make out with me. Now you say you're gay. What other conclusion am I supposed to draw?"

"Okay, I AM…" he admitted, sitting down on the toilet. "Just a lower-case 'g' gay."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You're the only one who knows."

"So when we came out of the closet…you never left?"

"That's one way of putting it. Please…Santana…don't tell anyone. Not Britt. Not Quinn…just…keep this to yourself, okay?"

"Why should I? Fucking hell, Rutherford…I've got a reputation to uphold here and you. Just. Blew it."

He grabbed her arm as she began to storm out. "San…do you have ANY idea what it's like living with a secret like that? Wondering if anyone's gay-dar goes off, and if the wrong person guesses, who will find out? If your parents find out? I mean, at this point…I don't really care. Just do what you want. Because honestly, I don't want to live the truth yet, but living the lie's no picnic either."

"Let. Go. Of. Me," she said in a low, furious tone.

And the feeling of unease that began to possess every fiber of his being didn't exactly…go away when she left.

But his secret remained just between them.

And she took it to her grave.


	6. Mike

Mike Chang didn't really think. He just flowed with the rhythm.

The people who thought too hard were the ones who got slushied or who missed out on things, so it was a matter of survival, really. And he certainly never stuck his neck out. He never worked too hard, and he certainly never _tried. _He didn't think too much, so he never really had much of an opinion on anything.

And although he'd never admit it to most people, he was a pretty decent dancer.

When Santana Lopez caught him doing the Michael Jackson signature Moonwalk in the locker room one day after football practice, he made her swear not to tell anyone.

She promised on one condition…that they make out.

He didn't think when Santana had her hands all over him. What self-respecting guy _could_? He just moved with her rhythm and let her take the lead. She was undeniably hot, and being laid by a hot girl was never a bad thing, and Santana had definitely done this a few times before. She knew what she was doing.

He didn't think when he and Santana went at it again and again in various dark and unusual places. And when she wanted to do more than make out, well, he didn't think THEN either.

He'd find himself in broom closets, in bathrooms, and under the bleachers at games.

Because, in all honesty, if he _had_ thought about it for two seconds, the odds that he and Santana would be going at it were fairly slim. She wasn't a nice person, not by any stretch of the imagination. He knew what kind of stunts she tried to pull. He knew what kind of person she was.

But then all of a sudden the spell was broken and there were no more broom closets, no more bathrooms, no more sneaking under the bleachers after games.

It just stopped.

And he didn't know why.

And he _had _to wonder. And wondering was bad because it was almost like thinking, but he just couldn't. Figure. It. Out.

More precisely, he couldn't figure _her _out.

What had he done? What had he possibly done to piss her off enough to warrant her wrath? He certainly didn't _say_ anything during their extra curricular activities. He never even told anyone, not even Matt. He felt used up and tossed away like a soiled paper towel.

He wasn't exactly _surprised_ that it ended, because he knew that it would. Because things like that usually did. He was more surprised by the fact that he didn't want it to end.

He wanted to ask her why.

He wanted to ask her if he had a chance with her.

And when he saw her shooting hoops by herself in the school gymnasium once, he had his chance to ask.

"I didn't know you knew how to shoot hoops," he said, and she jumped.

"Jesus, Mike, quit sneaking up on people! You'll look like some creeper or something."

"Seriously…where'd you learn to shoot like that?"

"Please, with three brothers, one of them being a college basketball legend, you pick up a few things," she told him, and then sunk another perfect shot.

"Wanna go for a round of horse?" he asked her.

She rolled her eyes as she dribbled the ball. "Look, you're a cool guy, Mike," and she sank it again, this time the ball bounced off the rim and Mike used the opportunity to grab the ball and he twirled it on the tip of his fingers.

"Ball's in my court now," Mike said, brown eyes twinkling.

"Oh for fuck's sake. I do NOT want to play horse with you, ok? Or leap frog or do the mattress mambo!"

"I've moved on, San. I meant the PG kind of Horse," he said with a laugh.

"Oh," Santana said when he missed the hoop.

"Actually, no, that was 'H.'

Santana coughed, but the old iciness was back without missing a beat. "You shoot hoops like a girl," she told him and managed to get the ball away from him.

Laughing, she dribbled. "Want the ball, Twinkle Toes?" she challenged. "You'll just have to come get it."

She tossed the ball behind the bleachers and gave him a scathing look, and then marched off.

"What the hell…" he started to say, but winced as the gym doors slammed open.

After Mr. Schue gave them the announcement, Mike did more than _wonder_. For the first time in his life, Mike Chang actually had to _think_. Not just thoughts about the next logical step and about facts and numbers adding up. He had to think about the big, giant questions. Like about the fact that none of it added up. That there was no next logical step after this point because this just…didn't make sense.

And he hated it like hell, but of course, you had to think when things like this happened. You had to wonder _why_.

Later that day after school, Matt was quiet. Quiet for him, which was saying something. He wasn't feeling particularly chatty himself, so he just turned the Xbox on and put in Halo 2 and handed Matt one his usual control.

"Aaaaw, Man!" Mike said as he guy died after brutal sniper fire. "That guy had to be cheating or something. No way else to explain it."

Matt sighed. "It'll be weird going to Glee practice next week knowing she'll never be coming back."

Mike just leaned back on the couch and put his hands behind his head. "You going to the wake tomorrow?"

Matt shrugged. "I guess. I mean, I guess we owe it to her, right?"

"Pfffft…don't know if 'owing' is the word I'd use, bro."

"She was our friend," Matt insisted.

"THAT'S using the term loosely," Mike returned.

Matt stood up now, obviously angered by his best friend's response.

"H-how can you even SAY that?"

"Last I checked _friends_ say something when something's up. Last I checked, _friends_ don't desert you like she did. I mean, San was a cool girl and all, but…"

"Sometimes it's just…not…something you feel like you can say aloud," Matt said. "Because saying it makes it real. I don't know, Mike…all I'm saying is, maybe she had a reason for keeping a secret like that."

"Matt…what the hell man?" Mike asked, now more certain than ever that Matt knew something about keeping a big secret.

"Look, I'll see you at the wake tomorrow, okay?" Matt mumbled and left.

Mike was left alone with his thoughts.

And he hated every single one.


End file.
